A Dream About My Mother on Her Wedding Day

I dabbed on Dream Anointing Oil last night at bedtime, the same magical formula that Krystal puts in the center of our palms at the end of Wednesday night Restorative Yoga. (The studio had six little bottles for sale.) The intoxicating floral blend is meant to enhance dream life.

It did. I had a very detailed dream about my mother and father on their wedding day (1951). I talked to them. I learned some things. I'm going to take notes for a short story or essay.

Last night I reread T. Capote's short story "Miriam" from 1945. It's haunting and like all of his best work, closely observed. He sold it to Mademoiselle, the June 1945 issue*.

Hope you have a good day. I have to jot before I forget about the fur stole my mother had on over her white wedding gown....and other details, like how it was to see Dad as a handsome young 28-year-old from the Bronx.

Only 28? That's Figgy's age....

*Per Wikipedia: Carson McCullers' sister, Rita Smith, who worked as an editor's assistant at Mademoiselle, recommended Capote's story "Miriam." She assisted George Davis, who gave Truman his first start in being published.^[3]

Mystery Dream Roll (or Nightmare Note?): 11 Kids & Counting

Want to jot details before they are erased from my mind:

1. I was hired to work for a family with 11 children. The mom was very pregnant w the 12th.
2. The house was in the Poconos, I think, and had a sprawling white porch. The mountain views were breathtaking. Blue and snow-capped and soaring. Lots of windows to see them through.
3. I didn't see any other houses around. Of course not. It was probably some kind of weird compound.
4. Figgy came to live with me there, too. She was 13 or 14 in one part of the dream, and about 6 or 7 in another [referenced in #13].
5. An exotic dark-haired young woman [maybe 30 years old?] who was expecting her first child also lived there. She was a caretaker for the kids, too. She was wearing a beautiful pink mohair sweater. [I know where this detail came from. Yesterday, I popped into Le Willow 83, the fashion boutique on North Willow Street in Montclair. I saw a delicious mohair sweater that was not in my size, too small, and that I could not afford now even at 50 percent off.] She played piano and the mom said she hoped I would get to hear it there sometime [if I was lucky].
6. I have no clue about the father of the young woman's baby.
7. The dad of the house was Amish, with a beard and eyeglasses.
8. The details emerged gradually: I was supposed to work from 7 a.m. until 1 a.m. every day; no days off.
9. I don't know what the pay was.
10. Some of the children were adopted and/or had been foster children. Some had special needs. A couple had cocoa-colored skin. Some were teens. It was really hard for me to remember their names in the dream and now that I have been awake for an hour, I cannot remember any of them.
11. The mom was telling me about her organic cotton maternity top, the buttery lotion she was massaging into her belly--and the work she expected of me.
12. She and the other young expectant mom were talking about how they could feel their babies kicking.
13. The dad was showing me how to run the dishwasher. (I guess an Amish family would not have a dishwasher, but he had Amish principles.) At first I thought I had to wash everything by hand. He was so organized that the little dishwasher soap packs were in baggies for the week.
14. He prepared the meals. Some of the kids got lucky--randomly--with blueberries on their plates next to a scoop of oatmeal. Some got half a cracker sandwich [with cheese] next to the oats. There wasn't enough of everything to go around.
15. It got weird(er) when the mom said I should be sure Figgy dressed appropriately. Oh, she picks out her own outfit every day, I said. She said I would have to check it each morning because nothing should be too close-fitting or revealing.
16. On my first or second day, the mom and dad were heading out to shop, taking one little baby and leaving me with the other 10 + Figgy.

Let's just say I am very, very grateful that this was not my true life. I would love the mountain views but that is all. Coincidence that I had this dream on Punchy's 11th birthday? Now I see the connection....11 children....and a choice to raise children from the foster care system....in our case, a single child.....

Oh, and I just remembered, maybe I dreamt about this family burden because I am left unsupported by Dan this weekend to get ready for family bday pizza and cake at 5 p.m. today with a few guests, including Sis....he is under a big book writing deadline....has been logging a lot of hours in coffee shops writing....I'm under a big pots and pans [and essay] writing deadline.....but our house is a mess and guess who carved out time to do two loads of dishes and supervise two play dates yesterday? Me. I am angry and resentful. At the first play date, they begged me to do a "Chopped" competition and so I did it for the two of them. At the second, I turned my back to make the brownie base for the Baked Alexa and the partners in crime made a huge mess with slime, that gooey craze I hate. I made them clean it up, with #resistance, but I still had to help because it was horrendous. I am so grateful that my sitter, Elaine, is coming in an hour so I can go to monthly restorative yoga class. Figgy works all day Saturdays and Sundays so I can't rope her in.

Please note, though I used the term Nightmare Note, I honor the women who choose to have many children, like my mom's lifelong best friend, Elaine Bergamini, who had 9; my dear friend Anne's mom, who had 8; and Liz's mom. But this was not a happy-family kind of dream. 

Day 9/Dream Roll: Thank You for Being There, My College Crush

This photo is from my Targum friend John Petrick's Facebook page.
That is Chris at the very right end of the table, with the hat on.
I'm not pictured. John often gathered "Targumites" at his family's Point Pleasant home
on the Jersey Shore, but I couldn't always make it.

It's about a year since my Rutgers Daily Targum friends and I gathered at an imposing old New York church on the Upper West Side to grieve the loss of our editor in chief and friend. He was a young man we honored and respected as students and budding journalists. He was 55.

It seems he took his own life, though the details were not released, leaving behind a first wife; a beautiful young adult daughter from that marriage; a pretty second wife; and a cute little boy with chestnut-brown hair who was full of mischief at the memorial service.

The clergyman who gave the eulogy pointed to the enormous, fat, fresh Christmas tree and the evergreen swags hanging up high. He said Chris had been there to help put them up not too many days before.

Our friend's name was Chris/Christopher, and he did things like call guys on the newspaper staff "Mr." so and so. He circled typos on the front page. He took a group of us on a tour of the New York Times on West 43rd Street. He pledged a frat.

I nursed a crush on Chris for years. Even though he had a steady girlfriend and I had a steady boyfriend, both attending college on the New Brunswick campus with us. Crushes, I think, can co-exist that way. I was spending five days/evenings a week at the Targum office with my friends, all of those smart, pre-law or journalism majors, mostly male. My boyfriend was a horticulture major on the agricultural campus. I loved and treasured him but I didn't see him every day.

I bet a lot of us had a crush on Chris, in retrospect. It was hard not to, if not for beauty, then for brains. He was tall and trim with brown hair and usually, glasses.

I also found it magical that his last name was Mahon, since that was my mother's maiden name, and of course my grandparents' Jim and Alice had that last name, as did my uncles and cousins. But our Mahon was Irish; his was not.

I still remember the Targum holiday party in sophomore year. I had not started dating my boyfriend yet, but would by Valentine's Day, when he sent me a florist delivery and we had our first kiss.

For that holiday party, I had slipped out of my daily jeans in my dorm room and put on a skirt. I wore a sheer cream-colored blouse though which a pretty camisole was visible. I put on heels and probably even a little makeup. I smelled like Love's Baby Soft.

Nothing happened, though I think he may have asked me to dance once in between fast dances to Bruce Springsteen and the inevitable chorus-line kick to Frank Sinatra's "New York, New York." [Hey, this was 1980 and we were pretty much hardscrabble Jersey kids who hoped to make it big as writers. Many of us did.]

But the other night, I had a dream about Chris. We were dancing; nothing sexual about it, just dancing in an empty room. He looked good, in a suit. I don't remember what I was wearing.

The conversation went something like this:

I always had a crush on you. Did you know that?
He smiled. 
I think everyone knew that, he said, half teasing. Modestly. No boasting.
Thank you for being there for me to have a crush on.
And he led me gently around the dance floor.

That's it, that's all. My communication with Chris from the Great Beyond.

Here is the obituary on legacy.com. I think maybe Chris and family had a home in Poughkeepsie area? Not sure. He had graduated from NYU Law School and had a very big job as head of legal and compliance for an important business.

Mahon, Christopher James., 55, of N.Y.C , NY died on December 13, 2016. Arrangements under the direction of the Michael Torsone Memorial Funeral Home, Inc.

Poughkeepsie, NY, 845-452-7700.

I'm glad, at least, that he seems to be at peace. 

Dance on, Chris, beyond the cloud cover and winter stars. You will always lead.

Dream Roll: Fresh-Squeezed Clothing Colors

I am looking forward to eating better starting today. I dreamt I saw a woman, a young brunette with long hair and a happy white smile, wearing a perfectly pool-blue swimsuit bottom and a grape-colored, long-sleeved popover top. [Popover is the Lilly Pulitzer word for just that; it pops over your head, no zipper.] I love navy and purple together and now, turquoise and purple, too. Wake up, girl, wake up! You have the power to make a positive change in your life.

Dream Roll: Baby Girl Birth Announcement

Slept in the comfy guest room at Sis and Don's, not too far from a marina here in Connecticut. Tossed and turned just a little bit. Had the most colorful dream.

I was giving birth to a baby girl--at my current age, in a spacious women's magazine editor's office in NYC.

The editor was Ellen Levine, whom I worked for in real life for many years--in my first job at Woman's Day for 4+ years and in my dream job as Lifestyle Writer at Good Housekeeping. John Mack Carter, another celebrity editor, was at the helm for my first 5? years at GH and then Ellen for the next 5.

I always admired her beautiful style--the slim skirts, tailored pants, pretty scarves--the swing and bounce of her silver-fox hair, her flattering lipstick, the fact that she balanced motherhood, marriage and career, the fresh flowers in her WD office, her perch at the top of a field I loved. And I respected her insights, visions and editing--when the Food Department rolled out their dozens of dreamy Christmas cookies and plates of chicken for photography decisions, when the Fashion Editor brought out the racks of clothing she planned to feature, and at editorial meetings, when we would paint a picture of the magazine reader and what she wanted to see. I even liked my editor's penmanship: Old-fashioned, flowy script on the typed copy routed to her for final approval.

Anyway. I was having a baby girl, and so was Ellen, at her current age. We were on familiar terms, as you would be with another mother delivering a baby the same time you were. Our husbands weren't there, nor were doctors or midwives, and the dream did not include scenes of actual, true-grit childbirth. In fact, I didn't see either of us pregnant, and neither of us looked too old to be having a baby.

But I saw the babies! And Ellen's, true to form, was beautiful. Her name was Ava and she had delicate features and abundant, pretty hair. When Ellen was taking her home [in a private car with driver], she had done the baby's hair in an adorable fashion, with several small bunches tied up with bows of different colors: blue, purple, hot pink.

My baby girl, on the other hand, shall remain nameless. She was cute and healthy but I can't remember a name. Yet she was speaking in full, sophisticated sentences--which didn't seem freakish in the dream, only surprising--and it was clear she had watched closely and absorbed my feelings during pregnancy. The little know-it-all said something about my Figgy and how she had observed her behavior. She mentioned weed [such a weird dream, right?].

By the end of the dream--and many of my dreams go this way--we were sorting through a lot of stuff. Ellen was getting rid of many things, and I was taking some, such as a cute knit baby sweater. She was tossing out gifts she had received that were just plain ugly. Then lots of people were in the space with us, people from NYC, who were watching our two babies for us. We were trusting people we didn't know very well to keep an eye on our newborn baby girls, but I took peeks at both of them as we sifted through things. Whatever we didn't want, and there was a lot, the other New Yorkers were welcome to take.

I can't remember much more, except two of the men walking out--one stylish fellow wearing a blue argyle sweater vest that I have in a bag tagged for the Red Cross at home, for real, and the other in one of my good H.'s sweaters, a tan crewneck with a patterned brown design. H. still has it at home, and I think Figgy wore it recently?

Anyway....such is the stuff of dreams. Ellen and I planned to get our baby girls together to play some time in the future!

Dream Roll: Shifting Sands in Provincetown

Provincetown dunes when we went in April 2016.

Ditto.

H. and Punchy on the Ptown beach.

I was having the coolest dream when the alarm went off. Have to write about it before I forget.

H. and I were at the beach in Provincetown, on the tip of Cape Cod. He went off to get something, maybe from the car or maybe a refreshment, and suddenly, I was on a huge expanse of sand that moved up and around to keep people dry from the approaching waves. It was spinning on its side, like a carnival Tilt-A-Whirl, and I loved the way it lifted me and my notebooks so we didn't get wet. We spun around and around as the tide came in and the waves crashed underneath us. Sometimes I was very close to getting drenched, but then the magical expanse of sand would lift up again. At times, we were carried out over the sea.

On some turns, my belongings slid and I almost lost them. On others, I was right in the midst of beautiful waves, lifting, roaring, breaking. It was thrilling.

I couldn't wait to tell H. when he returned. You have to see this! Come up here. This part of the beach starts spinning and lifting you above the waves!

It was just the most amazing concept. I loved it. I talked to some people--a couple of guys and an older couple--and they said it had been put there about three years ago. They said the sandy, spinning platform could be even be rented out for people who wanted to host brunches or parties.

It had a name but hours later, I can't remember exactly what it was. It was one word, something environmental like Sea or Beach or Green or Wind. Or Tide.

In the dream, I told H. to write an article about it for the Science Times in the New York Times--since he is a health and science writer--but we both agreed that since it had been around three years, they had surely covered it already.

Maybe you could pitch an update, I said.

Theories about this dream:

1. I am very eager to get to Cape Cod August 28 for our week-long family vacation, even though it will be a bit disjointed because H. is going to leave the Cape for Maine w Punchy August 30 and bring Figgy back Sept. 1 [that's the day her lease is up]. We stay through Sept. 4. I have only been to the Cape 3 days this summer so far [but Maine and California, and Sis's in Connecticut, yes, and thankful for that].
2. Some magical thing out there has been protecting me from near drowning--from bad things. It has allowed me to view the beauty up close without the risk.
3. I will have good luck with my job hunt. I will be daring and adventurous in an area that I love. And it will feel like fun.
4. Neither Figgy nor Punchy was there. No daughters! Focus on us as a couple again?

Have a great day.

Dream Roll: Tory's Getting Married!

From Tory's instagram feed.

I missed the news--how?!!!--but Sis texted me yesterday to say Tory Burch just got engaged. I immediately hopped on google and ate up the reports of her ringing in the new year with Pierre-Yves Roussel, chairman and chief executive of the powerhouse LVMH Fashion Group. I read WWD, NY Times [my favorite, with emailed comments from Anna Wintour], harpersbazaar.com, etc. 

Last night at the dinner table, I told H. and Punch all about it, that T has 3 sons from her marriage to Chris Burch, plus 3 stepchildren, and her fiance has 3 sons from his previous marriage. 

Then, lo and behold, when my alarm went off this morning, I was at the Tory + Pierre-Yves wedding--I hated to open my eyes and see my old forest green nightgown and feel my aching back [the bedtime BenGay hadn't worked]. But oh, the magic carpet ride!

Details:
The setting was by the beach. I was at the reception/party, not the ceremony itself. Tory was there, and so was Linda Wells, editor in chief of Allure Magazine. They both remembered me. [In real life, I met Tory at her store in the meatpacking district and she complimented me on the way I was wearing a gold beaded shirt from her line. She was very nice. I have never met Linda Wells, but I have corresponded with her, when she first went to Allure.] 

Tory and Pierre-Yves were giving out presents to their guests [I saw only women] in a huge, sheltered outdoor area. It was in keeping with her reputation as a very generous person. First, a few gold hoop earrings with pearls floated down to the crowd from a balcony. And then, tons of them. We all reached, clamored and got some. Then long, swingy Tory necklaces and large pins. Soon, we were climbing all around, over a house roof, etc., and collecting vases [Tory does have a home line] and other things. I caught a totebag and that was good, because I filled it with all the goodies that kept coming. I had a smaller bag, too, but lost it somehow, and felt disappointed to lose all of those treasures.

At one point, I saw an oversized pearl pin. "This would look great on a white or blue denim jacket," I said to a friend [can't remember who now, but might have been Cathy Maher, someone from St. Mary's School who is younger than me and whom I have not seen for decades.]. "That's not really my taste," she said. I thought she should take it anyway, and yet I couldn't, because didn't want to be too greedy.

Caught a glimpse of Pierre-Yves and he looked handsome. Then, right before I woke up, I saw a little display area to show the room and products for the youngest boy in their blended family--in the dream, he was maybe a toddler. There were monogrammed towels and clothing and even disposable diapers with special custom designs on them. 

As I said, seeing daylight was a rude awakening. Now you understand why! Sigh. A person can dream.

Dream Roll: Two Alices in Manhattan

Per Wikipedia, a flapper image.

I was very close to my maternal grandmother, Alice. More than once as we sat in her sparsely furnished, second-floor Dumont apartment, she said mischievously from her old wood rocking chair, I was a flapper. Her dark eyes twinkled, and she smiled. She also married my grandfather, an Irish immigrant, when she was 17 and he was 34.

Last night, I had a nightmare. I was so glad it wasn't real. It went on and on. When I woke from it, at about 6:30 a.m., I wanted to shake H. and tell him about it, but he had been sleeping fitfully in the heat, so I didn't.

The dream took place in New York City---uptown and then midtown, near Times Square. This will sound supercreepy, but my grandmother was chasing me around, and I was running for my life. I think she wanted to kill me. I was granted a few wishes, one after another, that gave me another chance to live. But I was in constant fear, no matter what I was doing and who I was with, that she was watching me and would find me. In the final scene, she was in flapper attire, with a black, jeweled and feathered hat. She looked young, maybe 30 or 40. Her onyx eyes glittered. Her smile was healthy and flawless but she was baring her teeth. [I told you this was creepy.] It was so unsettling. We were over near Penn Station then.

I woke up in bed, my heart pounding.

I had my therapy appointment today [my code word for that is Private Benjamin]. My therapist is wise. He pointed out that there were two Alices in the dream, and that maybe I was ready to leave the fear-filled one behind, and move more toward the powerful one. He also said that teeth are a sign of, I think, animal power. So maybe powerless Alice vs. powerful one.

Any thoughts welcome. I still can't shake the memory of this bizarre and disturbing dream.

Meanwhile, I hate this heat. Sitting in front of A.C. to work a little. New goal on horizon. Will keep you posted.

Good night, sweet dreams. No nightmares!!!!

TCOY

1. Walked Sug around block with Punchy and her small pal.
2. Ate Brussels sprouts again, and a little watermelon and one fresh cherry--even two steamed asparagus spears with breakfast [Weight Watchers recipe].
3. Probably drank a gallon of ice water.
4. Nap.
5. Private Benjamin.
6. Work prep.

Dream Roll: New Job

Wow, what a dream. It went on and on. [H. had set alarm for 7:30 to go work on a deadline, so I had extra dream time in a still bed. And believe it or not, Punch isn't up yet. Late night at drive-in.]

I dreamt I was in NYC in the office of an all-female communications firm. I think I was there for a job interview. It was in midtown. 

The woman in charge was dressed so chicly, I can't put it into words. It was like Grace Kelly meets Aerin Lauder. I can't capture it. But boucle Chanel-style suits in pastel or white with silvery threads were the uniform on many workers--one by one, the women emerged from their offices and I thought, I could never keep up with wardrobes like this! Impeccably gorgeous.

I had on a V-neck sleeveless white boucle dress myself, with silvery threads in the weave and glittery beading around the neckline. The silhouette was modern and the length ladylike, skimming below the knee. I had nude stockings and high heels.

The boss liked me but I knew in my heart that this was the only outfit I had that met their style criteria.

Then suddenly, H. appeared, blurting out some question about health insurance. And then one real accessory from my life materialized--my purple Filofax datebook. The number 2 woman was asking if I could go for drinks at 5--so she could get to know me better before they hired me--and I suddenly could not remember for the life of me who was watching Punch back in New Jersey. 

Oh, I can ask Figgy to watch her when Punch gets out of camp, I thought, but then realized  Fig was in school, living in NYC. I checked my datebook and saw that Elaine was watching her till 5--so then the woman asked if I could do drinks at 4. She was getting impatient. 

I then started scrambling, panicking about whether to put calls out to find a daily sitter for Punch so I could take the job.....and then I woke up.

Hmmm. Now. I remember. My bedtime reading was the August issue of Town & Country, with Dakota Fanning, age 20, on the cover, and the feature about her called "Tinseltown Angel." She's modeling glittery trends: big diamond rings, sparkly tops. Aha, silver threads.

And then I remembered the vintage, mint-green, bejeweled cuffs at Wicked Thrift in Orleans yesterday. I tried one on, liked it. It was like the neckline of my dress in the dream.

Oh well, gotta go clean--and Will is on the horn.

Happy sparkly day and maybe I really should get a job after I finish Anthony's book. Obamacare is killing us: $1700 a month to cover H., me and Fig. And the coverage is minimal at that. Dream--or necessity? I think you and I both know the answer, but perhaps having Punchy is clouding the picture.

Dream Roll: College Cleaning Lady

When I was a college freshman, I befriended Fifi, a Lebanese woman who came to clean the bathroom and vacuum the hallways in the New Gibbons dorm at Douglass College.

She wore a maroon uniform and gold earrings, and we smiled at each other. My mother wasn't sick with cancer yet, dying or gone, yet for some reason I seemed to be seeking out motherly traits in others. Maybe I just missed my Mom.

Today I allowed myself to read and rest in the afternoon. Things have been trying. [The cleaning lady connection is coming.]. Figgy is taking a leave of absence from Parsons [given until September 2014] and coming back home Sunday. She has had a hard time settling in; we don't fully understand why ourselves. Seems to me a big pull from forces in town here. We tried to convince her to stay the semester, even drop a course or two. But no. Appears it has been difficult to separate from home, which is why it's worrisome that she's coming back. She'll have to get a job.

Anyway, today when I napped, I dreamt I was in Figgy's dorm room and a petite cleaning lady was there. Figgy had set up a tabletop Christmas tree early; it was on her dresser. I pointed to Figgy at her desk in the adjoining room and said in a low voice "She's leaving school," then dissolved into tears in the arms of the cleaning lady. She cried with me. I felt supported. Finally, I had to pull away. The lady let me know that.

Rereading that makes me think that cleaning lady in Fig's room was my mother. Does that means she's watching out for her, or me or both of us? Am I hoping Figgy has connected with other kind "mothers" in her life?

Good  night.

TCOY

1. Read, rested.
2. Walked Sug around block.
3. Went to horse stables with Punch after school, to sign her up for a lesson. Liked seeing the barn and the horses and the women in riding pants.
4. Made salmon, brown rice and broccoli for dinner.

Dream Roll: I Dream of Jeans

H. took Punch out this morning, Sug snuggled up with me--and I had time to dream.

Dreamt I put on my boot-cut blue jeans and they fit and looked good, to my amazement. Except I heard a tear and sure enough, when I had zipped the front, the seat had torn.

Relates to real life. I had to empty my big bottom bureau drawer to make room for a certain little someone's shorts, skorts, pants, socks, underwear. Bottom drawer held my long-ignored boot-cut jeans.

Figured I owed it to myself to see if they really do fit. It's a very real possibility. Kind of like The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, they're a pair of Gap blue jeans with stretch that I found in a Ridgewood thrift shop. I might look a tiny bit like a big-bellied plumber in them...but not really. Not with the right top and high sandals.

Enjoy your day.

Signing off from my workspace at one of the tables in Whole Foods West Orange...must go and relieve Elaine. H. at NY Public Library working. Thanks for listening.

Dream Roll: Cornbread Immersion

So funny. Just dreamt about my friend/boot camp leader/next-door neighbor Patsy's husband, Andy, making cornbread. He was using fine cornmeal and a little heavy cream, too. Now you have to understand that Pats and Andy are serious athletes. They work out every day, eat grilled meats and salads for dinner, don't keep heavy foods around. :) I guess I must be itchin to make some cornbread in my new skillet. And I will bring Pats and Andy some!

I'll sure miss waking up to the country music station here...it's really full-bodied...the DJs have such rich voices. They seem to be having so much fun it would be hard to be in a bad mood. Thank you, US 101: check it out. Just realized that back home in Montclair, I can click on Listen to US 101 Live. Will do.

I like returning from trips with a souvenir like that.

Dream Roll: Back in Dumont with Dad

Last night I dreamt I was with Dad. I'm not surprised, b/c I was thinking of him a lot when watching "The Twilight Zone" marathon on the Syfy channel.

I can't remember it all b/c it is now 3:46 P.M. and I woke up at 6:30ish.

But we were back in the Dumont house on Bedford Road. Dad wanted me to do some errands with him, including going to the jeweler for repairs. One was a pearl bracelet, like the fine gold chain he got Mom, interspersed with single cultured pearls, spaced out at a distance [kind of a forerunner to the famous Tin Cup necklaces]. The jeweler fixed the broken chain by putting a kind of clunky tunnel over it--like a cardboard tube or something. It also had the name of the jewelry store on it. It was obvious, and ugly. We asked him to please do another repair, and he was going to. We just wanted the chain fixed.

Then there was a simple ladies' watch with a one of those stretchy bands. I don't know what was wrong with it.

Finally, Dad wanted to get two paintings framed. The man [still the jeweler] suggested framing them together. When placed side by side, they looked like a continuation of the same painting. We really liked it, and hadn't seen it that way ourselves. We were trying to figure out where he would put it, if he had enough wall space for a painting like that, rather than two separate smaller ones.

Then Dad went back home to take a nap...but on my brother Will's bed, upstairs. He was tired. The bed had the turquoise ribbed bedspread that in real life was on my bed, across the hall. He also had a mask on his face [I'm sure this is related to a pig mask I saw in a "Twilight Zone" episode yesterday, an episode that Dad and I watched and talked about in real life.] Take the mask off, I said. and helped him get it off. I was afraid he wouldn't breathe right with it on.

I said I'd be back another day soon, but I had to hurry and catch the bus to work--to an office in NYC. I just about caught the 1:15 but it went by without stopping. Then a smaller bus came along, and I took that. I felt torn, leaving Dad behind and also being late for work--like I hadn't done either part right.

I don't remember anything else--but when I awoke, it felt I had really been with and seen my good Dad. In real life, I ran him around to do a lot of errands: doctor, drugstore, bank.

But why was he napping on Will's bed? He never did that. Always on the recliner in the living room....in fact, he didn't like going up to Will's room b/c he would always worry about all the stuff Will had stored in there and what would happen when he had to sell the house.

Perhaps there is a message buried in this.

TCOY

1. Boot camp in the soccer dome. Boxing.
2. Walked Sug around block.
3. Salon blowout.
4. Made brown rice, veggies and broiled scallops for dinner.

To the Sea: Je Revien

"Christina's World," by Andrew Wyeth*, who spent a lot of time on Monhegan Island.

I will return. Yes I will. And I hope it will be for a whole summer, or a series of summers.

Or forever.

I have never been to such a beautiful place in my life as the Monhegan I saw yesterday and today, July 2 and 3, 2012. I felt like a different person on the island.

H. and I were there with young Fig for a couple of nights maybe 10 or more years ago, and I loved it then, too. But now: unforgettable. I feel changed.

Treasures Untold

From every part of Monhegan, a different water view. Clear air with a breeze to lull you to sleep. Gently lapping waves. Lobster rolls served on grilled buns at the Fish House. [Pricey--about $17 for one with a bottled water.] A long, freshly made rosemary baguette from a little shop called Carina--when you tore into the outer crust, tender dough scattered with gorgeous garden rosemary. My brother-in-law Mike got the loaf, some Cheddar and sliced chorizo to bring on our hike. That simple lunch was enough for six adults and two kids. Simple living. See?

We hiked over to the shipwreck on the island, a tugboat [rusted now] that fell to rough waters in 1943. The young boys in our party climbed in and over it. It was a mighty-looking tug, so you can only imagine how fierce the storm was. Then we hiked a narrow trail, the air scented with wild beach roses colored hot pink and white. We saw wild irises. Trailing yew all over the mountain [our hotel was named after that] and soaring gulls over the sea. Near fashion-accessory crisis: I was wearing my gold charm bracelet, which I treasure here because it has oceany charms like a lighthouse, sand dollar and little Nantucket basket, and because charm bracelets are so pretty and feminine and jingly, anyway. But suddenly I looked and it was gone. My heart sank. I could never replace my collection of tiny treasures, two from Sis, and I even had the safety catch on. So I started to backtrack in a panic and then H. followed, and found it immediately. He said he saw it glinting in the sun. I'm so glad I realized it came off. Two links just broke--must have gotten caught on a rock or branch. I would have been SO SO SO upset if I'd lost it.

Hidden Dreams

Our hotel, The Trailing Yew, was humble, but nice, with only kerosene lamps to light our bedrooms [electric light in the shared bathrooms] and family-style breakfast and dinner included in the $115 per person/per night rate. I won't lie. The food was not all it could be, but some of it was really good, like the tiny fresh peas at dinner and the warm, plain homemade donuts and strawberry-cream cheese muffins @ breakfast. [Want to try those muffs @ home--melty chunks of cream cheese and flecks of sweet berries.]

I dreamt about my grandmother Alice there and her apartment in Dumont. Was I communicating with my subconscious, with what my grandmother would want for me, with what she did or did not have? With her love of the ocean, also?

After two days and one night, onto the Elizabeth Ann for the 4:30 ferry ride back to Port Clyde. Had to stay on the upper deck, outside, because churning waves make me feel sick down below.

Now I must sleep, with full lungs and a sunburned back. Back in Belfast, and we're all heading to H.'s sister's lake house tomorrow. I do feel very lucky. But I also feel a sea change coming on, somehow, something stirring in my soul, the power to improve and believe in myself....to be all that I can be.

Good night.

*On the ferry ride from Port Clyde to Monhegan--a famous artists' colony--the captain took a detour past the Wyeths' home and the painter's wife, Betsy, waved and smiled at us from the door, in what looked to be her bathrobe. [It was still morning.]

TCOY

1. Lots of laughter last night, playing card games with the kids in a living room lit by kerosene.
2. Long hike on rugged trail.
3. Read and closed my eyes in the afternoon on the porch of The Trailing Yew, looking down at the water.
4. Stared at sea, at waves, felt feelings, on ferry ride back.

Dream Roll: Figgy's Life in Dark Danger

Set alarm for 4:45 to register H. and me for the Spring Lake Five Mile Run on Memorial Day Weekend. It's a race [or walk/run, which appeals to me] along the boardwalk by the sea. Patsy and Andy love it, and Patsy sent the link to sign up. Early registration day ended yesterday, with 7,000 people. We were closed out. Today there were 3,000 more slots, open at 5 A.M. It's that popular. We got in!

So then I trolled the internet for two hours while H., Fig, Sug and my world snoozed--I read more about the run, surfed chocolate cake recipes, which brought me to Amanda Hesser's Food52 site [I know, I know, chocolate cake and five-mile run don't mix], which led to a google image search of her and her New Yorker writer husband, Tad Friend, which ultimately landed me at Amazon with a book I really want to read that he wrote.

Nightmare

Finally back to bed--I'd only slept about four hours. Had a very troubling dream. H. and I were in NYC at a hotel with Figgy, and our friends and their kids were there, too. We had to go to a dinner that evening and Figgy, we figured, was with her friends, and anyway, she loves NYC and knows it pretty well, so we didn't have to worry.

Turns out we did. I later saw her emerge from a noisy second-floor apartment from which a woman in black lingerie with garter belt was hanging out the window and telling me Don't worry, everything's okay. I just have a party like this every Friday after working so hard all week. When she said that, I hadn't known Figgy had been there, and I just nodded and smiled, because I can be very accepting.

But it later came out that there were many vials of blood in the room behind that open window, and a report on the TV news back in the hotel said something bad had been happening, this group had been taking people's blood in some bizarre party game, and Figgy, alone, had wandered onto the scene and in her innocence, been lured in. She came back to our hotel room with some blood transfusion thing attached to her arm vein, and there was a real risk that she had gotten Hepatitis C, which could kill her. The transfusion thing was pumping blood in and out of her arm.

She also said she had had sex with some weird older guy at the party [he showed up at the hotel, too] and that she had had sex [unprotected] many times before and done drugs and all kinds of things that were a complete surprise to us.

Moey was in the dream, trying to help. I really wish this was a nightmare and I'd just wake up, I said to her. But it wasn't. It was real. And I was terrified. My daughter was hating me, scorning me and at great health risk to boot.

And then it was a nightmare--thank God, I woke up in our bedroom, white Shabby Chic curtains from Target on the windows, H. in his office on the other side of the wall, working.

Where's Figgy? Is Figgy okay? I asked. Yes. She had fallen asleep on the living room couch, exhausted from her stomach flu.

I told her about the nightmare, and how glad I was that it wasn't real. Then I caught myself. I've had enough problems squaring off sex with my religious background. So I didn't want Figgy to think that her being sexual would be a nightmare for me.

I don't mean that having sex would be a terrible thing, I said. But in the dream, you were having sex with a lot of people and it was unprotected.

I did my best, probably fumbled. Because when is a mother really ready to accept a daughter's sexuality? Lord knows we daughters have a lot of sifting to do of mixed messages about our beauty, sexuality and intelligence--and the messages from our parents are the ones that mean the most and last the longest, whether we work with them or against them.

I'm just so glad our Figgy is OK.

TCOY

1. Ummm,....really have to reach to list anything here today. I only walked the Little Dust Mop a few feet, not even around the block. I was lazy and it was cold. Figgy was home sick and I stayed in, too. But signing H. and me up for the 5-Mile Run is definitely a step in the TCOY direction. Really excited about it.
2. Read, and took long nap.
3. Work feeling good, and productive.
4. Sat down to have snack/lunch rather than eat standing at counter, remembering blogger friend Nan, who has also pledged to sit down while eating.
5. Made nice chicken cutlets with spinach salad.
6. In CVS, picked up and put down bag of Peepsters, a new temptation. I don't like Peeps, but these are marshmallow creme dipped in dark chocolate. Have been trying to remember that things with long, complicated ingredient lists are artificial and not very healthy. That helps.

Anxiety Dream

The bad dream: H. and I were going to be in a championship golf tournament, playing against Alan Alda and someone else. Two against two. In Hawaii, where it was very, very pretty and there were cute kittens, one of whom was trying to get me to adopt it. The tournament was to be heavily publicized--and televised.

Sheer terror: I've never golfed unless you count mini golf at the Red Barn on Cape Cod [and once at Arnold's], and I'm not particularly good at it. Never once got it in clown's mouth at end, to win free game. [But our friend Michael did.]

So glad it was not real. But does this mean that H. and I have to learn to do something really hard? Play as a team in front of others, and with each other? Teamwork is not always our strong point...hmmmm...and the kitten...was that our Figgy?

Yes, it's all coming together now....

Dream Roll: Training for the NYPD

What now--NYC cop? And I am catching the 9:59 DeCamp bus in this morning.

I was on the back of a bike with a policewoman at the helm--I was a rookie in the New York City Police Department. It was scary. We were zipping down Eighth Ave and all over the city. She knew how to weave and stay safely on the side. I think it was a bicycle, not a motorcycle. She was nice. Street-smart and intelligent--still nice.

When I discovered a cylindrical metal rest for my feet [not only hers], I felt a little safer.

We also went to somebody's grandmother's tiny old apartment, abandoned for years. When the policewoman opened the door, I cringed, expecting a ton of roaches to spring from the floor.  The grandma's boxes of crackers and everything else had not been removed; the family hoped she'd be going back. No roaches--a miracle.

Yikes. Hold on NYC, here I come.

Dream Roll: Cape Cod with Mom + Dad

Image from softpedia.com.

With Fig away, I've been waking up early and falling back to sleep, worrying a bit. But those subsequent sleeps have been rich minefields for dreams.

Dreamt Mom and Dad were going to the Cape on the spur of the moment and asked Sis and me to go with them. They also worked out some logistics with our brother Will, Mom talking to him about what he was doing with his life, his work. She was talking directly to him, caring but straightforward. He was staying behind in Dumont when we left.

On the way, we also picked up a friend, Joyce, and Margie Gallagher, who in the dream was going through a divorce and felt sad. Dad was driving his white car [the one we have now, in real life].

It was a Monday, and I realized I hadn't made plans for Sug, who would watch her. But Joyce had a little tiny, adorable white Bichon puppy named Bailey along for the ride! I was also fretting about my work, and saying quietly to Sis, Do Joyce and Margie know how they will get home? We're driving them five hours to the Cape--do they think this is a day trip? Where will they sleep if they stay with us?

Then...we were at a seafood restaurant on Route 6, with good live music. We were dancing, jumping around. Dad had a walker, and he and I did some ride down a dune or something. We were both holding on to his walker like it was a sled and laughing so much. It was fun and exhilarating. Then I hugged Mom closely. She had on a peasant skirt, embroidered white gauze Indian top and kerchief--an outfit she really did have. It was clear that we loved each other.

Then....I realized....I'm at the Cape! For a few days! Yay, I love the Cape! And I also realized that this was a part of my parents that I hadn't really seen--a spur-of-the-moment part.

And then I made plans for getting to the Hot Chocolate Sparrow so I could blog about it--and get an Iced Mocha Sparrow. And talk to my friend Anne about when she is coming to the Cape.

Magic Carpet Messages
If my bed is a magic carpet that takes me to subconscious thoughts, then here is what I learned:

1. Again, my parents are together in the Great Beyond.
2. I want to be at the Cape! And that's perfect, because my friend Anne and I are planning to go for a few days with her daughter Nikki, and also, H. and I are making plans for our week at the Cape with Fig.
3. I haven't been back to the Cape since Dad died. It will be sad for me to go on some level. I have so many memories of being at the house on Wonderstrand Way with Dad. Also, there are so many memories of him there--his tools, the shoe polish kit I gave him one Father's Day, his old books, the marker on the bird grave he dug with Fig when she was tiny, much more. After Mom died, I felt very sad at the house, like I could really feel her presence there, and I missed her. Like you can go through your busy life and not face the loss of someone but then you can't run away anymore at the end of the road, the Cape house.
4. I met Joyce through a friend and haven't seen her in years. I've wondered how she is.
5. Margie Gallagher was the pretty, kind older sister to Eddie Gallagher, a classmate of mine who died soon after high school graduation, of a brain tumor. I think often of Eddie, and how a friend and I stopped over, maybe on graduation night?, to drop off a card. The house was dim but he came down to see us.

Dream Roll: Dad and My Typewriter

First I dreamt I was falling in love--or lust, at least--with a long-time male friend of mine. As with all dreams about falling in love, what was good about it is that moment right as you are falling, right on the cusp, when you both adore everything about each other. My hair looked pretty--there were some soft blonde curls on the front right side--and we both knew it. He was touching them.

Then the dream river flowed to Delia, my friend and colleague in the magazine world for decades. She was the Nutrition, Diet + Fitness editor at Good Housekeeping for 20+ years. She was giving me some work assignments, about furniture, I think. I told her I'd be happy to take on more. She had one that was a supermarket sorbet comparison.

Then I was in Stop & Shop with Dad. I had my blue manual typewriter with me. I was showing Dad a new Nabisco product--High-Protein Oreos. They were in little six-packs, and the package copy said something about how they'd keep your energy up longer, and would be good for older people. I was efficiently typing up some notes, as Dad watched.

He was well enough to walk, because we moved on to another aisle, and then I realized I had left my typewriter behind. We retraced our steps but couldn't find it. I was worried someone had stolen it.

Later, I got it back at the Lost and Found in another building. First they showed me one blue typewriter that wasn't mine, and then they brought mine out. I was so grateful for the honesty of the person who returned it.

But by then, Dad was gone.

Real Life

In truth, my parents gave me a blue typewriter in a black case for high school graduation, and Dad has always encouraged me as a writer. [See, I still use present tense, can't let go of it.] Using, losing and finding my typewriter with him is surely a symbol of him still urging me on. And, while unearthing treasures in my office yesterday, I uncovered another little manual typewriter. [H. has quite a collection.]

I'm writing this in my office. H. likes sitting on my white wicker couch here and reading The New York Times in the morning.

What are you writing about?

A dream.

Blogging? 

Yeah.

What was the dream about?

I don't want to tell you.

Tell me. Come on, I always tell you. What, am I going to read about it on your blog?

It was about falling in love with someone. But I'm not saying who it was.

Who was it? Come on, tell me, I tell you about every dumb crush.

No, I don't want to tell you. But don't worry, it's not a mutual friend of ours, or anything like that. But what I will tell you is that any time I have a dream about falling in love, it's about that feeling when you adore everything about each other. Like I had some pretty blonde curls, and he was touching them.

That sounds exactly like someone I know.

What I take from this dream, and my urge to get up and write about it, is that somehow Dad came through to me on Father's Day.

And that maybe this moment suspended in time was a good opportunity to tell H. what I remember, and miss, about falling in love. About that window you look through and see happiness, when you can't believe how lucky you are, that he wants to kiss you and you want to kiss him, and you can't see any faults, only a lovable, boyish man--a writer, like you!--in a worn leather jacket and round glasses, who walks you to the subway after one of your first dates and watches to be sure the sliding doors close snugly before he heads upstairs to catch his train to Brooklyn.

Dream Roll: Jewels at the Russian Ballet

Russian ballerina Anna Pavlova. 

I know little about ballet [though I've been to a few lovely ones at Lincoln Center] but had a vivid dream just now about coming upon the destruction of the Russian Ballet building. I have no idea if such a building exists now or ever has.

But I was with Moey, and later, Anne and Michael Mernin, and I kept finding jewels. Unearthing treasures. It was a big building, and the levels circled around and around in a kind of spiral, not unlike following the seating levels at the ballet itself.

First I noticed a little simple gold ball post earring. And then I kept sifting through the abandoned place and found a beautiful pearl necklace, dangling earrings, ruby earrings, rings. I was showing Moey and two other women we didn't know what to look for, how to find things.

Moey and I were racing against the clock, because we had to be back for a Dumont High School track team dinner.

Look, I said to the two women. Rubies. These are the jewels the ballerinas wore in the Russian Ballet. They're real gold. Look how beautiful they are. And look at this gold detailing. 

The two women quickly caught my fever.

Soon, it became clear that there were whole jewelry rolls and boxes that the graceful dancers had taken with them to the ballet. Their costume people had wrapped and packed them carefully. There was an old cameo [like the ones my grandma Rose, my father's mother, had] but the face was gone. There were earrings and earrings and earrings. First you'd find one, and then you'd sift through the sandy dirt and find its mate. Over and over again.                                                  

There were carefully packed costume trunks, too. Skirts with beautiful, narrow pressed pleats. Boxes of saving bonds. It became quite clear that the dancers had packed up everything of value to them. They were running away.

The earrings had beautiful old details, like that kind of pretty gold netting that cradles a stone.  The square rubies were large and clear. One gold ring had a small light blue stone. It fit my ring finger perfectly.

By the end, though, I felt overwhelmed. I was asking Anne and Michael [who are financially smart professionals in real life, and also big tag-sale goers] about how to cash in the bonds, and I started to fret that I could not do that, they were not mine, that I'd be obligated to notify the owners. And that felt overwhelming and confusing. Then what about the jewelry? How could I rightfully keep that?

I was about to lay out a selection for Sis, so she could choose the jewels she wanted, when I woke up in my quite ordinary bedroom.

But to me the messages are clear:

1.  I love accessories, but I have enough. Too many to sort through, organize and properly appreciate. Possessions can be a burden. A fact I know all too well. Right now I still have mounds of mine to sift through, and many boxes from Dad's life, too.
2. What people leave behind can require work for the finders.
3. Things and people eventually vanish, like the face on the cameo. And now I just realized that Figgy has pretty little cameo earrings that she's been wearing all weekend. I've admired them, they're so cute. What does this mean?